


When All I Want Is You

by estrella30



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angsty Schmoop, Barebacking, Established Relationship, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 09:44:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3524576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estrella30/pseuds/estrella30
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The flat is small. It’s tiny and cramped and nearly everything that’s inside is either broken or on its way to needing to be fixed. They’re never going to fit all of their things here, and will be in each other's faces every second of their lives. </p><p>Zayn absolutely cannot wait. It’s tiny but it’s <i>theirs</i>. It’s going to <i>be</i> theirs.  </p><p>When Harry moves out a year later and Zayn’s left alone, the flat’s never seemed so big. </p><p>or - Zayn and Harry move in together and don't have a lot of money and everything falls apart (and then gets put back together)</p>
            </blockquote>





	When All I Want Is You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ellisaco](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellisaco/gifts).



> For ellisaco!!!
> 
> Hiiiiii babe. I hope you like what I did with your prompt. You had so many great ideas so I tried to make this one angsty and schmoopy with some conflict and a lot of feelings like it seemed like you like. Hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Thanks to B for reading along and J for the beta. You are both rockstars!!
> 
> Any remaining mistakes are completely my own!

*

_**then** _

The flat is small. Just one room that’s so tiny Zayn wonders if two people will even fit in it. (“It’s small but perfect, Z,” Harry had said. “We don’t need more space than this.” He’s pretty sure Harry is trying to be optimistic, but Zayn doesn’t know if he’s buying it.) 

There’s a bathroom tucked off and into the corner, and they’ll have to put a screen up on the side to keep their bed private. They can _maybe_ fit a small sofa and a telly if they find a box short but sturdy enough to balance the telly on, but Zayn’s not entirely sure. 

The telly will probably fit but the idea of a sofa might be pushing it.

Toward the back of the flat there’s a sink and a short fridge and a hotplate. Zayn knows how much Harry loves to cook. He wonders how Harry will manage with just a hotplate and maybe a microwave if they can find one cheap enough, and he thinks it’s impossible. It probably can’t be done. He turns around to tell Harry that no, it would be nice to live together but this place isn’t going to work. They’ll keep looking and maybe they’ll find something better soon. 

Zayn looks up and sees Harry’s face, the way he’s practically _beaming_ , and all the words freeze like ice on his tongue. 

“It’s _perfect_ ,” Harry whispers. He spins in a circle in the middle of the room. When he stretches his arms out Zayn thinks he could probably touch both sides of the flat while standing still. “You and me. All cozy, like.”

“Cozy,” Zayn snorts. Harry shakes his head and steps in closer, slipping an arm around Zayn’s waist and pulling him in. Their bodies slot together like puzzle pieces. Harry tips his head down and kisses Zayn, licking hot and wet into his mouth. 

“It’ll be romantic,” Harry breathes. Zayn looks up and Harry’s eyelashes are fluttering. His cheeks have gone pink, his eyes are glazed over, and Zayn realizes beyond a shadow of a doubt that he and Harry are going to fuck right here, right now on the floor of this teeny tiny flat whether they decide to take it or not. 

“I’ll cook for you,” Harry says.

“With what?” Zayn can’t stop thinking about the hotplate. About Harry not having every single thing he wants and needs just to be with Zayn. 

Harry shrugs. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Harry, I don’t know,” Zayn says, but Harry kisses him quiet, his hands slipping up under Zayn’s shirt, fingernails scratching rough against his back. 

“Do you want to move in together?” Harry asks. His mouth is moving over Zayn’s, lips sliding over Zayn’s cheek, catching on his stubble. Zayn feels his dick twitch in his jeans. It’s ridiculous how easy he is for Harry, even after all these months. 

“Haz--”

“Do you?” Harry asks again. His eyes are twinkling. “Because I love you, and I want to live with you. Do you to live with me, too?”

Zayn huffs. It’s not that simple. “I do, yeah, I just--”

“And do you love me?”

Zayn doesn’t even have to think about that one. “Of course I do.”

“Then let’s do it,” Harry says. His eyes are bright green and so, so happy. “Say it’s ok. Say you love this place too and we can take it. Please, Zayn.”

Zayn looks around again. The walls are a dingy grey and stained at the top from what’s most likely a leaking pipe. The kitchen sink has a slow drip. The floorboards creak under his feet, and he could probably reach over from where the bed would go in the corner all the way to the front door without ever getting out of bed. 

“Zayn,” Harry wheedles, and Zayn never was any good at telling Harry no.

“All right,” Zayn says softly. He’s already smiling though, so happy with Harry he’s ready to try and overlook all the things that might say that this isn’t the best idea. Because he loves Harry, he truly does. That’s the most important thing. 

Harry whoops and cheers and kisses Zayn loudly on the mouth. He picks Zayn up and carries him over to where he can press him against the wall, sliding to his knees right there and taking Zayn’s cock out of his jeans and pants with shaking hands. Harry sucks him off with Zayn’s fingers in his hair and his name on Zayn’s tongue. 

The flat is small. It’s tiny and cramped and nearly everything that’s inside is either broken or on its way to needing to be fixed. They’re never going to fit all of their things here, and will be in each other’s faces every second of their lives. 

Zayn absolutely cannot wait. It’s tiny but it’s _theirs_. It’s going to _be_ theirs. 

When Harry moves out a year later and Zayn’s left alone, the flat’s never seemed so big. 

\---

Zayn wakes up the first morning in their flat to Harry poking him in the cheek, his leg slung over Zayn’s under the sheets. It’s early still, Zayn can tell from the sleepy squint of Harry’s eyes and the way he’s yawning around his smile. Zayn buries his face back into the pillow, but Harry doesn’t stop, just keeps poking him, slithering around until he’s straddling Zayn’s bum, his hands warm on Zayn’s back. 

All in all Zayn’s been woken up in worse ways. 

“Morning,” Harry says, voice gruff. He leans in and noses the back of Zayn’s hair. Zayn tries to keep from giving in and smiling, he really does, but Harry makes it difficult. Zayn’s never smiled as much as he has since he’s been with Harry. 

“Did you sleep well?” Harry asks. 

Zayn tips his head to the side and yawns. His hair falls too long over his forehead, and Harry leans down, covering Zayn’s back and brushes it away from his face. Harry’s mouth is warm. He kisses the back of Zayn’s neck, the wing of his shoulder blade. Zayn feels his skin prickle in gooseflesh, his dick going hard against the mattress. 

He and Harry christened the flat last night, Harry fucking him bare right there on the floor. They don’t even have a bedframe - just the mattress and a pile of sheets and duvets on top because it’s barely fall and the heat seems dodgy already - but they were frantic, so desperate for each other they couldn’t even make it the few meters to fuck in the bed. Zayn is still sore. His thighs are aching from the way Harry spread him out, and he’s got scratches running down his chest and back from Harry’s nails. 

“Really well,” Zayn mumbles. Harry’s hands are smoothing down his sides. He presses his thumbs into Zayn’s hips, and Zayn lifts up, burying his face against his arm and biting his lip when Harry teases his teeth and tongue over the swell of Zayn’s arse. “Harry--”

“‘M’gonna lick you out now,” Harry says. His voice has gone deep and husky like it does when he’s turned on. Zayn wants to see his face, but when he tries to look Harry just shakes his head and dips down lower, licking where Zayn’s bum meets his thigh. Zayn whines high in his throat and can’t stop himself from rocking his hips up and back, desperate for Harry’s fingers and mouth. 

“Yeah, Zayn,” Harry murmurs. Zayn hears him fumble with the slick and then he’s pressing his finger into him, a slow, steady press, before following with his tongue. Zayn feels lit up from the inside. Every inch of his body has gone electric, shaking apart with need. 

Harry’s got his hands on Zayn’s hips and he pulls him in closer, fucks his tongue in steady jabs and Zayn can’t take it. He’s coming undone right here on the bed, Harry taking him apart piece by piece. 

“Come on, babe,” Harry mumbles. He bites Zayn’s skin, holds it between his teeth and sucks until it starts to hurt. Zayn squeezes his eyes shut and buries his face in the pillow as he comes, and then he’s barely done, he’s still fucking _coming_ when Harry flips him over and shoves him around until he’s back enough for Harry to kneel between Zayn’s legs. 

Harry looks wrecked. His hair is a tangle of curls, and his face is pink. His mouth is shiny and wet, and when Zayn looks at him his eyes go dark. He leans down, sliding his hand under the back of Zayn’s thigh and yanking him up. 

“You all right?” Harry asks. 

Zayn barks out a laugh because _Jesus_. He rubs a hand over his face and blows out a shaky breath. Harry’s nearly killed him, and it’s not even half nine in the morning. “More than all right.”

“Good.” Zayn peeks at Harry from between his fingers, and Harry’s grinning at him wickedly, stroking his cock and getting it slick with lube. He raises an eyebrow and kicks Zayn’s legs further apart with his knees. “So I can fuck you now, yeah?”

Zayn laughs because christ. Maybe he was daft, but he didn’t realize moving in with Harry was going to include _this_ much sex. He kind of wants to go back in time and kick his prior self in the arse and tell him to get a move on. That living with Harry is pretty much the best thing ever. 

“Yeah,” Zayn says. He plants his feet on the bed and cants his hips up. “Definitely.”

Harry leans in and bites Zayn’s collarbone as he slides in, his dick thick and hard. They stopped using condoms a few months ago, and Zayn can feel everything now; how warm Harry’s dick is, how wet. Harry fucks into him fast, chasing his own orgasm and trying to drive Zayn to his second, but still manages to pant out, “And after, I’ll make you breakfast.”

Zayn laughs and kisses Harry sloppily when Harry fits their mouths together as they fuck. “You’re the best, Hazza,” Zayn says. 

Harry lifts his head just enough to grin as he dicks into him even harder. “Still don’t think it was a good idea to move in together?”

Zayn laughs again, and Harry keeps fucking him. “The best, Hazza,” Zayn says. He should probably try and remember to pay attention to Harry more. Harry apparently has great ideas. “You’re a genius.”

“ _Your_ genius,” Harry says. He bites at Zayn’s lips. When he looks up his eyes are dark and green. “All yours, yeah? That’s what matters.”

“Yeah,” Zayn says. It’s the truth, though. Zayn needs to make sure he believes it. “That’s what matters.”

 

_**now** _

Zayn wakes up a few days after Harry’s left to his alarm going off and Oreo’s bum in his face. Oreo is all black with four white paws and a white tip on her tail, and is the sweetest cat around unless she’s hungry. When she’s hungry she wanders around the flat, meowing and whining and being a general nuisance until you stop whatever it is that you’re doing and feed her instantly. 

Harry’s usually the one to get up with her in the mornings, not Zayn. He pretends to be cross about it, but Zayn always peeks out and watches as Harry tries to grumble at her, all the while grinning as he sleepily fills her food and water bowls. Zayn wonders if Oreo hates him now because she’s stuck with him and Harry’s gone. Zayn wouldn’t blame her. 

There is sun shining through the window, and Zayn grunts and groans. Oreo stares at him. Zayn tries to roll back over to shove his face into the pillows, but Oreo is faster than him and smacks him on the nose with her paw before Zayn can try and fall back asleep. 

“What?” Zayn says and glares. Oreo levels her bright green eyes at him and meows loudly in his face. 

The flat is quiet - so, very, very quiet. Zayn stares up at the ceiling and counts the water spots stained into the plaster. He’s laid in this bed and stared up at the ceiling so many days and nights. He’s laid next to Harry, and they’ve tried to figure out the shapes the stains made, or if they looked like animals, or what color they would paint over it if they ever scraped together enough cash. 

Zayn had wanted to paint the ceiling a pale blue, like the sky. Harry had wanted to do it dark and then scatter white dots for stars all over it. Zayn pretended to argue with him about it, but in the end he probably would have done the stars if that’s what Harry really wanted. If Zayn had been good enough to manage to hold it all together, that’s what he would have done. 

He tries not to think about it now, though. Time to move on and all of that. He stretches, and Oreo jumps off the mattress and onto the floor, meowing loudly as she stalks toward her food bowl. Zayn’s body hurts with how much he aches inside. It’s like a giant weight is sitting on his chest; his lungs feel like they’re filled with water. 

It’s been three days since Harry left, and Zayn doesn’t know how to keep breathing without him.

He gets up though. He runs his hand through his hair and fills Oreo’s food and water and goes into the tiny bathroom with the sink with the leaky faucet and cleans his teeth. He rifles through the clothes on the floor and finds clean pants and jeans and a shirt that used to be Harry’s. He pulls over his head. It still smells like Harry, is the thing. The sleeves are too long and the neck is stretched out and Zayn stops for a second. He lets himself think about Harry and miss him and wish he was here. 

It’s better off this way, Zayn knows. He only lets himself think about Harry for a minute, and then he gets his things and locks up the flat as he goes to work. 

_**then** _

Zayn jiggles his key in the lock and tries to do the bizarrely complicated _twist-tap-shove_ maneuver on the front door that Harry showed him the other day. It’s been three months and Zayn’s list of things they need to fix in the flat is getting longer and longer. He gives one final twist and leans his hip on the door, only to have it finally fly open with no resistance at all and leave him tumbling inside. 

Lovely.

He can hear Harry giggling from the kitchen counter, and when he finally looks up and shakes the hair out of his eyes to glare he finds Harry smiling at him happily from the other side of the room. Harry’s hair is tied back in a bright green sparkly headscarf and he’s leaned back against the counter eating a bowl of coco pops. He’s got on skinny jeans and bare feet and a black shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. 

Zayn’s crap day suddenly just got a tiny bit better. 

“Hiiiiii,” Harry says. He smiles around the spoon in his mouth, then puts it on the counter and leans his head back to drink the milk from the bowl. 

Zayn wrinkles his nose. “Gross.”

Harry shrugs and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. He puts his bowl in the sink and walks over to Zayn, sliding his hand around the back of Zayn’s neck and pulling him into a kiss. Harry’s mouth is cold. He tastes like chocolate. 

“You love it,” Harry says. 

Zayn rolls his eyes but doesn’t disagree. How can he when it’s the truth.

“How was your day?” Harry asks. He nips at Zayn’s bottom lip, then dips his head to lick over the soft spot on Zayn’s neck that Harry knows drives him crazy.

Zayn grunts and flexes his fingers on Harry’s back. He’s still in his bloody jacket. He’s not even had time to put his rucksack down or tell Harry about the shit tips he made tonight or complain about any of the one billion things they need to fix up before they can finally try and live in this crappy flat comfortably. 

“Awful,” Zayn says. “Rude customers, shitty tips. I dropped an entire pint on my shirt in the first five minutes and had to borrow Louis’ dirty one.” He shakes his head and sighs. “And the door was stuck again when I got home just now. We’re going to have to--”

“Ssh,” Harry says, kissing down Zayn’s neck and unzipping his jacket. “No more talking. Talking is stupid.” He gets Zayn’s jacket off and drops it to the floor, kicking it across the room with one bare foot and crowding Zayn back against the wall next to the front door. 

“But Haz--”

“I booked a gig today,” Harry interrupts, licking over the shell of Zayn’s ear. “Me and Niall.” 

Zayn shivers and digs his fingers into Harry’s hair. He’s happy for Harry - booking a gig is amazing news - but Harry is sucking a bruise into Zayn’s neck and all Zayn can do is rock his hips into Harry’s thigh and groan.

“That’s - _Jesus_ ,” Zayn gasps. Harry’s shoving his hand down the front of Zayn’s jeans, his fingers rough with callouses from where Niall’s teaching him to play guitar. Zayn had meant to come home and have a good sulk about how awful his day was, but Harry seems intent on making Zayn think about anything other than that. He’s got his fingers curled around Zayn’s dick and is stroking him with short, tight strokes. 

“That’s really good, Haz,” Zayn breathes. 

Harry chuckles where his mouth is pressed to Zayn’s throat. “The gig? Or me wanking you off right now.”

Zayn squeezes his eyes shut and bites his bottom lip until it hurts. “Both.”

Harry laughs quietly, then raises his head to kiss Zayn’s mouth. His tongue is wicked and hot, curling into Zayn’s mouth and kissing away any complaints Zayn thought he was going to have tonight. Sure his day was awful and he barely made any money and nearly everything they’ve got in the flat is broken. But he’s got Harry and Harry’s got him. Sometimes, maybe, Zayn thinks that’s all they need.

“Good,” Harry says, and kisses Zayn until he comes.

_**now** _

Zayn unlocks the door to the restaurant and turns off the alarm. It’s dark inside, and he flicks the lights on, the room glowing dimly under the late morning sun. He’s still not sure how he wound up getting the opening shifts at the restaurant when he was promoted, but it’s more money and set hours; Zayn figures he can learn how to be someplace by eleven every day without too much stress. It’s not like he’s got much else going on in his life now anyway. Work is a welcome distraction most days. 

He heads into the office, stopping on his way to set up a pot of coffee. The office is hot from the heat being trapped behind the locked door all night, and he shrugs off his jacket and flicks on the computer, falling down into the desk chair and putting his head down on his arms. 

He’s a manager now, is the thing. He’s in charge of the ordering and staffing and making sure the restaurant he’s worked in for years runs smoothly. It’s a great job - it’s the job Zayn’s always wanted to be honest. It’s just that it’s come a few months too late. 

The rest of the morning passes quickly, and by the time Louis comes in at half three to start getting ready for the dinner rush, Zayn’s mostly shaken himself out of his funk and is managing to function close to normally. 

Sure, he’d wanted to get promoted when he was still with Harry, before he cocked everything all up. He wanted to have a real job, wanted to make a real salary so he could fix things up in the flat, maybe even buy Harry a gift every so often. Harry had his steady job at the record shop and the gigs he played with Niall every weekend. Zayn hated always feeling like he was the one contributing less, no matter how many times Harry told him it didn’t matter. It mattered to Zayn, is the thing. In the end maybe it mattered a little too much. 

“Good morning, Malik,” Louis chirps as he sticks his head inside the door. His hair is pushed back under a bright green beanie, and his eyes are sparkling. Louis is still waiting tables, but he’s never seemed to mind. He’s good at it, makes great tips, and now he gets to spend half his time teasing Zayn about being _upper management_. Not that Zayn minds. Louis always seems to have a way of making him smile. 

Right now he tosses a handful of paperclips at Louis’ face, laughing when Louis ducks and curses at him at the top of his lungs. “It’s half three, you cock,” Zayn calls out. “On what planet do people say _good morning_ at half three.”

“On what planet is Zayn Malik awake enough at half three to notice the difference?” Louis teases. He’s stepped inside the office now, leaning back to say something to whoever just passed him in the hall. “Oh, wait. I forgot. This is _manager_ Zayn now.” He _tsks_ quietly, and Zayn grins. “Manager Zayn gets up at the crack of dawn, doesn’t he? Drinks a green smoothie, maybe? Might even go for a run?”

Zayn narrows his eyes and huffs. “I got a promotion, Lou. Not a lobotomy.”

“Mmhmm,” Louis hums. “So you say.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and turns back to the computer, figuring if he ignores Louis he’ll finally decide to head into the kitchen and start setting things up for the night. What he doesn’t expect is for Louis to come further inside and say, “Oh, wait, before I forget,” and toss a tied up plastic bag in Zayn’s direction. 

Zayn catches it on instinct, fingers fumbling with the knot at the top to open it before he even thinks about it. “You left that at our flat a few months ago,” Louis says, nodding toward the bag. “Liam was cleaning out the closets over the weekend and found it. Figured I’d bring it back in case you needed it.”

The second Zayn’s fingers touch the material though, his throat goes tight and his eyes start to water. He must make some sort of sound because Louis steps close enough to put his hand on Zayn’s shoulder and ask him what’s wrong and it’s just that--

“It’s not mine,” Zayn says thickly. “It’s Harry’s.” He pulls the sweater out, barely resisting the urge to bury his face in the material and see if it still smells like him. As it is now, when he touches the soft grey cable knit he can picture Harry in it, curled up cozily on their sofa, the sleeves coming down just past his fingers. Harry wore it when the flat was too chilly, which was nearly always. Sometimes he wore it when they went out under his coat because his winter jacket wasn’t warm enough either. 

“Fuck,” Louis says quietly. He squeezes Zayn’s shoulder, and Zayn pulls his hand back from the sweater, tucking the bag close to his chest. “Sorry, Liam thought that--”

“No, it’s fine. Really,” Zayn insists. He pastes a smile on his face and looks up. He knows Louis doesn’t believe him, but he also knows Louis is too good of a friend to call him on it. “It’s…” He shrugs and purses his lips. “It’s fine.”

Louis is quiet for so long Zayn thinks that maybe he’s not going to say anything. He thinks that Louis might go into the kitchen and start getting ready for dinner and when Zayn leaves at nine Louis won’t mention it to him. It’ll be like it never happened. 

Louis doesn’t do any of that though. He looks at Zayn instead and says, “He misses you, you know.”

Zayn closes his eyes and looks away. “Lou--”

“He’s not said anything to any of us about it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Louis adds quickly. Zayn figured as much. He might have broken Harry’s heart, but Harry’s too good of a person to talk badly about him to their friends. “But we can tell when we see him and stuff. He misses you.”

“Yeah, well,” Zayn says and trails off. He doesn’t know what to say. _I miss him, too_ doesn’t even come close to what Zayn’s feeling. He doesn’t think there are words big enough to express it. 

“Yeah,” Louis says softly. He doesn’t push Zayn or press him to say anything else. Just pats Zayn on the shoulder one last time before walking out, leaving Zayn with Harry’s sweater tucked in close to his chest.

_**then** _

The second Zayn pushes the front door open he knows something’s wrong. Not that the flat is ever a beacon of warmth, but today it’s especially cold, his breath actually fogging up when he exhales and steps inside. 

“Hazza?” Zayn calls out. He hears a thump and a muffled _Hello!_ being called from the bathroom. The pipes are creaking where the water is running and then it shuts off. Harry steps out of the bathroom bundled up in his warmest grey sweater and a thick red scarf, an old beanie pulled down low on his head. 

His cheeks and the tip of his nose are pink. He comes over and presses his hands to Zayn’s cheeks when he pulls him in for a kiss. 

“Hi,” Harry says against his lips. “Heating’s broke.”

“What?”

“Not too sure what happened,” Harry says with a shrug. He sniffles and rubs his nose against his own shoulder. Zayn’s even colder inside the flat than he was out on the street. It’s ridiculous. “Got home from the shop, and it was like an icebox in here.”

“Did you call the landlord?” Zayn asks. He fumbles through the basket of their winter things, finding a pair of gloves and shoving them on Harry’s hands. Harry smiles and kisses him again. His mouth is cold against Zayn’s cheek. 

“Yeah. He said to call someone and come fix it and he’ll deduct the cost from next month’s rent.”

Zayn starts to panic, because he’s not going to have the money for next month’s rent until _next month_. He’s already short on money for groceries this week. The last thing he has is a hundred quid lying around to fix the bloody heater. 

“I dont have it right now though,” Zayn says, voice tight. His cheeks flush hot when he admits it and he hates this feeling. Hates having to struggle all the damn time. “I was going to try and pick up some extra shifts before rent was due. I don’t--”

“It’s all right,” Harry says easily. He shrugs and finds one of his old, fuzzy scarves in the basket. He wraps it around Zayn’s neck carefully, kissing the curve of his jaw when his fingers land there. “I’ve got some money on the side. I can put it out and you just pay me back, yeah?”

Zayn’s stomach twists. That’s not - it’s not what Zayn wants. He hates feeling like this. Plus the fact that there’s no way Harry’s just got that much money on the side; Zayn knows he doesn’t. Harry just got paid from his last gig the other day and made a big deal about how he was going to take all of it and get tickets to see some band Niall’s been talking about. 

Zayn narrows his eyes and looks at Harry steadily. “What money have you got on the side.”

Harry doesn’t answer right away. He looks down at the floor and then up at the ceiling and taps his foot. 

“Just some money,” Harry says. 

Zayn knows instantly what Harry’s planning on doing, and he’s shaking his head and holding up his hand in protest before Harry even starts to talk. “No, Harry, all right? Just. No.”

“It doesn’t matter though, Zayn,” Harry insists. His eyes are wide and green. “It’s just a concert. I’ll go to a billion more in my life I’m sure.”

“But you were saving money for _this_ one,” Zayn says. His chest is tight with the unfairness of it all. “You shouldn’t have to pay for everything that’s broke. I’ll go back out now and try and pick up a shift tonight and--”

“And leave me here _alone_?” Harry pretends to pout and sighs overdramatically. He curls his arm around Zayn’s waist and pulls him in. His skin is cold but his mouth is warm. Zayn tucks his head into Harry’s chest and lets Harry hold him, just for a minute. “No way. Plus I already called Liam and Lou and told them we’re coming over for a bit.”

Zayn sighs. He’s so tired of this. Tired of struggling. Tired of needing money. Tired of not feeling like he’s enough for Harry, every second of the day. 

“Come on,” Harry says, voice almost a whisper. “I love you, yeah? We’ll call the guy to fix the heat and until he gets here we’ll just have to use more duvets and cuddle even closer. I don’t know,” Harry says gently. He bites the tip of Zayn’s nose, and Zayn laughs in spite of himself. “Sounds pretty good to me, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Zayn finally says. It feels a little like defeat. “Yeah, all right.”

_**now** _

Zayn’s walking home from work when he sees the sign taped inside a small concert venue window. It doesn’t click at first - something about the picture or the name of the band not doing much more than sending an inkling of recognition up his spine - but then it does. It takes a second, but as soon as he recognizes the name everything inside him goes cold and hot and tight all at once. 

It’s the _band_. The band from the show that Harry never got to go to. Zayn stops in front of the door and stares at the sign. It’s nothing special, just a piece of paper, but seeing it now makes his breath stutter in his chest. He shakily exhales and pushes the door open. 

There’s music coming from inside, the sound tinny and muffled from down a long hall and behind closed doors. The air is stale and smells of smoke. It’s so late tonight’s show has clearly been going on for a while, the front lobby empty except for a girl with bright purple hair in the coat check booth and a burly looking bouncer resting his elbows on the counter and chatting her up. 

Zayn lets them talk for a second more before clearing his throat. Now that he’s inside he’s not even got any idea what to say. 

“Hiya, love,” the girl winds up saying first. “Can I help you?”

She’s got bright blue eyes and a pretty smile. The bouncer looks over at Zayn, giving him a slow nod when Zayn just stands there in silence.

“Yeah, hi, sorry,” Zayn says. He clears his throat and nods towards the window. “I was wondering, the band there, the one from the sign in the window. Have they played here yet?”

“Not recently, no,” the girl says. She snaps her gum and rests her chin on her fist. “Played here about a year ago and killed it. Sick band. You a fan?”

“Me?” Zayn says. “No.” He runs his fingers through his hair. His stomach is twisted in knots and he’s got no idea why. “My boyf--” the word sticks in his throat and he clears it, swallowing past the lump and rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve heard of them before,” he finishes quietly. “A friend of mine is a fan.” 

“Nice,” the girl says. The bouncer leans back to flick through something on his mobile, and the girl nods toward the window and points at the register. “Did you want to get tickets? They’re selling out fast. The show’s only next week but if we have any left they’ll be more money at the door.”

“Yeah,” Zayn says. He pulls out his wallet, fingers brushing over a decent size stack of notes and closes his eyes. Stupid, he thinks to himself. So stupid that he messed everything up just because of something as superficial as a bunch of slips of paper. “Give me two of the best seats. Like, the very best thing you’ve got.”

The girl snickers a little and punches in a few numbers on the register. “General admission, love. The best seat is the one you get if you stand outside the door long enough before we open.” She winks at him a bit and marks the top of two tickets with a small red X. “But show these to Matt when you come back and he’ll hook you up,” she tells him, nodding toward the bouncer. 

Zayn doesn’t tell her that he’s not going to be coming back. That the tickets are for Harry, not him. He doesn’t tell her that they’re mostly an apology, a way to make up for Harry having to miss the last show to fix the heat in the flat. They’re not much, but they’re something. They’re something Zayn can do _now_ for Harry to show him that Zayn appreciates everything Harry ever gave up for him. That he remembers. That he won’t ever forget. 

He just says thank you and takes the tickets, slipping them in the front pocket of his jeans before walking home. 

_**then** _

They’re not going to be able to go away for lads weekend this year, and it makes Zayn crazy. It’s just that this is a thing they do. They’ve done it for years. He and Harry get together with Liam and Lou and Niall, and they add all their extended friends and do a weekend away somewhere stupid, drinking and smoking and pissing away money. 

It was never a big deal before. When Zayn lived at home he just worked a few extra shifts to have some spending money and went away, him and Harry sharing a sleeping bag and getting pissed under the covers after sneaking a bottle of wine away from the rest of them before they went to sleep. It’s not a big thing but it’s _their_ thing. This year though, with rent and utilities and fixing every damn thing that breaks every second of the day, there’s just no way they’ve got the extra money to go. 

Zayn is so mad about it he can barely think straight. The worst part though, is how Harry doesn’t seem to be mad about it at all. 

“How are you not bothered about this?” Zayn asks. He yanks a hand through his hair and tugs on the ends in frustration. Harry just shrugs easily. He’s moving around the tiny kitchen, boiling water for tea and heating up tortillas on the hotplate. When he turns around and grins at Zayn his cheeks are pink, and he _genuinely_ doesn’t seem cross. Zayn has no idea how he’s doing it.

“I’m just not,” Harry says and shrugs again. “Like. It’s been fun, and I’m sure we’ll go again, but if we miss this year it’s no big deal, yeah? You want peppers in your quesadilla?”

Zayn blinks. Harry holds a green pepper up and wiggles it in the air, and Zayn nods distractedly. “Cheers, yeah, peppers are great.”

“Ace,” Harry says, and turns back to start slicing it up.

“It’s just crap though, yeah?” Zayn persists. It’s tugging at him, like a scab begging to be scratched. Why doesn’t Harry care? Why isn’t he as cross about it as Zayn is? He opens his mouth to complain, but Oreo chooses that moment to come slinking into the kitchen, twining herself around Harry’s ankles and meowing loudly. 

“Aww, hi, baby,” Harry says, leaning down to scratch Oreo behind the ears. They’ve only just got her the past few weeks, but already she likes Harry more than Zayn. Not that Zayn blames her. Harry is amazing. “You want a piece of cheese?”

Oreo meows again and Harry drops a few pieces of shredded cheese onto the floor. The tortillas are sizzling and Harry bounces around, shaking his hips and humming quietly to whatever song he’s got in his head. 

It’s baffling, to be honest. Zayn doesn’t know how he does it. 

“Don’t you ever get angry though?” Zayn blurts. His head is spinning. He doesn’t know how Harry is just so chill about this. “Like, this isn’t the first thing we’ve missed.” Harry flicks the hotplate off and turns around, crossing his arms over his chest and watching Zayn carefully. “I just - I don’t understand why it doesn’t bother you.”

“It just doesn’t,” Harry says. He licks his lips slowly, reaching out a hand to Zayn which Zayn gratefully takes. “I like going away for lads weekend, but I like being here with you more.” He tugs Zayn in, noses along the curve of Zayn’s jaw and kisses the shell of his ear. “Love it, even. Don’t care much about seeing Niall’s stupid face for an extra weekend when I could be here with you instead.”

Oreo starts purring at their feet, and Harry reaches down and picks her up, holding her in front of his face and pretending to talk like a cat. “Plus, if no ones home who’s going to feed me?” he says, shaking Oreo’s paw in Zayn’s face. Harry is truly ridiculous. Zayn loves him so, so much. “I’ll be so hungry that I’ll chew up all of the laces on your work shoes again, Dad, and no one likes that.”

“Ugh, god,” Zayn wrinkles his brow and makes a pained sound in his throat. “Don’t have the cat call me _Dad_ , Harry.”

“Daddy then?” Harry peeks out from behind Oreo’s fur. “Maybe _Big Daddy_?” he murmurs, and Zayn can’t help it. He bursts out laughing. 

“Come on,” Harry says, pulling Zayn closer. The cat struggles to get free from between them, and Harry just tightens his grip on both Zayn and the cat. Oreo looks up at Zayn and seems to roll her eyes. Zayn knows all too well how she feels. 

“Dinner, then a film, then we lock this one in the bathroom and I’ll fuck you until you pass out,” Harry says. His face is split into a wide grin. This time when Oreo tries to get away he leans down enough to let her go, standing up only to take Zayn’s face in his hands and kiss him breathless. “Sound good?”

“Yeah,” Zayn mumbles as Harry keeps kissing him. He’s still upset about missing the holiday with the lads, but maybe Harry’s right. Maybe it’ll all be okay no matter where they are. “Sounds perfect.”

_**now** _

Zayn’s home on a Sunday, sat on the sofa in just a pair of boxers and flicking through the telly when someone knocks sharply on the door. He puts the remote down and looks up, staring at the door warily. The knocking stops, and he’s about to ignore it all together, when he hears Harry’s voice. Everything inside him freezes.

“Zayn,” Harry says. His voice is tight. “Zayn, open up.” 

Zayn stays where he is. Maybe if he pretends he’s not home Harry will leave. (Not that Zayn wants him to leave. Zayn wants Harry to stay with him until they’re both wrinkled and old, ninety or a hundred years from now. That’s not possible anymore though, because Zayn cocked it all up. Every time he thinks about it he wants to crawl inside a hole and never come out.)

“Zayn, please,” Harry says. His voice is quieter, closer now, as if he’s leaning against the door. Zayn wants to see him so badly his chest hurts. He stands up and wipes his hands off on his thighs, grabbing a pair of sleep pants from the floor and yanking them on quickly. “I got your schedule from Lou so I know you’re in there,” Harry says again. “Just - can you open the door, please?”

“Yeah, I--” Zayn clears his throat. He wonders how he’s going to manage this. How is he going to talk to Harry without letting on that he’s completely falling apart without him. “Hang on.”

Zayn makes his way to the door and closes his eyes, breathing in and out one last time before flipping the locks and letting Harry in. Oreo must have heard Harry’s voice because she comes zooming out from the bathroom, sliding between Zayn’s ankles and launching herself at Harry the second the door’s open enough. 

“Well hello, little girl,” Harry croons. He instantly crouches down to pet the cat, and Zayn goes back into the flat to find a shirt to pull on. So far he’s only seen the top of Harry’s head, his hair neatly pulled back into a bun and he already knows the conversation is going to take more out of him than he’d like. He should probably be a bit more dressed for it. 

When Zayn looks down he realizes the shirt he pulls on is one of Harry’s. Of course it is. Zayn would try and run away and change but Harry’s stood up now after giving Oreo one last scratch on the back of her neck. The sight of him again is paralyzing. Zayn had thought his heart was broken in two before, but now it feels like the two halves have shattered into a million tiny pieces. 

“Hi,” Harry says flatly. His expression is tight. Zayn tries to force himself to smile, but he can tell by the way Harry’s face falls that he doesn’t quite manage it. 

“Hiya,” Zayn says. He turns away and goes to the kitchen area. He needs something to do with his hands that isn’t grabbing Harry and kissing him until neither of them can breathe. “Erm - how are you? Do you want a drink? I’ve got water if you like. Or I could do you a cup of tea, or--”

“Zayn,” Harry says, voice clipped, and Zayn looks back over his shoulder. He’s never seen it before, but Harry almost looks angry. “Zayn, what the fuck?”

Zayn blinks slowly. He’s got no idea why Harry would decide to be mad at him now, after everything’s already gone to shit. He expects Harry to say something else, maybe give him some indication as to why he’s here in the middle of the day on a Sunday, but Harry says nothing, just crosses his arms over his chest and keeps a steady gaze fixed on Zayn.

After a minute Zayn gives up. He holds his hands up in the air and shakes his head. “What?” 

Harry’s digging around in his pockets, muttering quietly under his breath. After a second he pulls out a folded slip of paper and holds it up, staring at Zayn expectantly. Zayn’s honestly got no idea what it is. When he stays where he is, just watching Harry curiously, Harry huffs, then comes close enough to press the papers into Zayn’s hand and oh. Not papers, tickets. 

“What the fuck are those?” Harry asks curtly. 

Zayn looks at the tickets in his hand, the same ones he bought for Harry and sent off in the post just the other day. He didn’t put anything else in the envelope with them - no note or letter or anything saying who they were from - but he mailed them from the restaurant, so it’s not like it was supposed to be a secret. 

“Oh. Uhm. Tickets?” Zayn says lightly. He scratches the back of his neck and chews on his bottom lip. “I mean, I know I didn’t like, put them in a card or anything, but--”

“Oh my god, are you _kidding me_?” Harry snaps. “I’m not here because I want a fucking _card_ , Zayn.” He sounds angrier than Zayn’s ever heard him. 

“Harry, come on,” Zayn says quietly. “They’re just tickets. I mean, they’re good ones at least. There’s no seating at the place, but the girl at the box office said when you go that night if you show the bouncer the little red X in the corner of the tickets he’ll hook you up and--”

“Jesus,” Harry says, swiftly cutting Zayn off. His cheeks have gone pink and angry looking. His jaw is tight. He stalks past Zayn and runs his fingers through his hair, yanking out the hair tie and letting it fall down loose around his shoulders. “It’s amazing, really. After all this time you still don’t _get it_.”

“Harry. I just.” Zayn licks his lips. He puts the tickets down on the little table by the door and holds his hands palms up. “I wanted you to be able to go. I know you wanted to go last time and couldn’t and--”

“God, Zayn, for the last time, _I don’t care about the bloody concert_.” Harry’s proper angry now, his voice almost booming off the walls. Zayn’s never seen him like this, not even that night after the pub when it was ending. The night they came home and fought for the last time and Harry started packing his things, telling Zayn that he didn’t want to leave, that he’d do anything to stay, but Zayn had to believe that Harry wanted that too. 

“I _never_ cared about the concert. Or about going away. Or about gifts.” He stops pacing and stares at Zayn, his eyes laser sharp. Zayn feels like Harry can see right through him, how much he’s hurting. “All you ever wanted me to do was get angry about things. Angry because we didn’t have a lot of money, angry because we had to skip things to be able to make rent. Well,” Harry holds his hands up and laughs bitterly. “I’m angry now, Zayn, and it’s still not because of any of that.”

“Harry, I don’t…”

Harry closes his eyes. He presses the heels of his hands against them and takes deep breaths until he’s almost calm again. 

“I’m angry because nothing has changed,” Harry says quietly. His voice cracks; he sounds broken. “I’m angry because you still think I care about any of that.”

Zayn’s chest is so tight he doesn’t know how he’s still breathing. Maybe he’s not. He honestly can’t even tell anymore. 

“I heard you got a promotion,” Harry says, changing the subject so quickly Zayn almost loses the thread of the conversation. Zayn nods. His insides feel cold and hot all at once. “That’s great,” Harry says softly. He locks his eyes with Zayn and holds his stare. “Are you happy?”

Zayn opens his mouth to say yes, because this was what he always thought would make him happy. He’s got a good job now and can afford to fix things and maybe move one day to some place bigger, nicer. He can buy things for Harry that would make him smile; extravagant birthday and holiday gifts and little trinkets for no reason. He’s got a steady income, and this winter he’ll get a new warm coat. When it’s too cold to be in London he’ll be able to go on holiday with the lads when they ask him.

It’s almost everything Zayn’s ever wanted. 

He’s not got Harry anymore, though. He’s lost the boy that’s standing right here in front of him, and Zayn finally realizes that none of the rest of it really matters at all. 

“Yeah,” Harry whispers. “I figured.” He shakes his head and bites his lip. Zayn wants to touch him. He wants to kiss Harry’s mouth and lean into Harry’s arms and have Harry hold him and tell him it’s all going to be all right. 

“I’m glad you got a promotion because I know it’s important to you,” Harry says gently, “but I never needed any of that. I never needed anything but you.” He looks up at Zayn. His eyes are bright green, and his voice wobbles when he adds, “I really wish I could have made you believe that.”

Zayn wants to tell him that he did, that he does, and that he’s sorry. He wants to tell him that he knows he fucked up. He wants to tell him that he needs another chance, that he wants to try and make things better. 

He can’t say any of it though because he’s frozen in place, gutted with the knowledge that Harry was really telling the truth the entire time. That he wasn’t lying just to make Zayn feel better. That all Harry really ever wanted was Zayn. 

He doesn’t say anything for so long though that Harry just shakes his head and sighs. He kisses Zayn gently on the cheek and leaves before Zayn can stop him, the door swinging shut quietly as he goes. 

_**then** _

“And then - fuck, Zayn, you had to see it. So Bressie had Liam’s pants in the freezer, yeah? But Liam didn’t know that and was somehow _so pissed_ that he started to pull them on without realizing it!” Niall’s laughing so hard his face is pink and splotchy. He gasps for air and says, “Nearly froze his dick off before he realized how cold they were! God, mate, you had to fucking see it.”

They’re sat at the pub waiting for the others to join them for a few drinks before Harry and Niall take the stage. Everyone but Harry and Zayn just got back from lads weekend, and Niall’s already half pissed, drinking pints and trying to catch Zayn up on everything they missed. 

It twists like a knife in his gut. Zayn can’t stop thinking that if he was better they could have gone. If he could just do better, be more for Harry, then Harry could have everything he deserves. 

“Sounds fun,” Zayn says tightly. He swirls his drink in his glass. Harry’s just texted him, a simple _be there soon love youuuuu xxx_ but it makes Zayn’s chest hurt. He wishes he could stop feeling this way. He wishes he could somehow feel like enough. 

“Bloody hell, are you still all fucked in the head because you two couldn’t make it this year?” Niall asks. He’s staring at Zayn with eyes far sharper than Zayn would have expected after so many pints. “You know none of us care if you and Harry were there, yeah?”

“Wow,” Zayn says sarcastically. “Thanks.”

“No, I mean,” Niall waves his hand in the air, gesturing grandly. “Not like, _we don’t care because we hate you both_ , or something. But like, you’re our mates. If you come this year, that’s sick. If you can’t, oh well. You’ll make it next year.”

“Yeah, I know,” Zayn mumbles. He chews on his lip and spins his glass on the top of the bar. “That’s what Harry said.”

“Harry’s right,” Niall says, then grimaces. “Fuck, don’t ever tell him I said that.”

Zayn laughs, and Niall catches Zayn’s eye and holds it. “He’s right about a lot of things, you know,” Niall says almost gently. Zayn thinks if he and Niall were the type of mates to be holding hands and having overblown heart to hearts in the middle of the pub they’d be doing it now. “He doesn’t care about the money, Z. I know sometimes it’s a thing you’re worried about, but like.” Niall shrugs. He smiles gently, and Zayn almost smiles back. “Harry loves you, yeah? That’s all that really matters to him.”

Zayn looks away. He knows Harry’s said that, and deep down somewhere Zayn knows it’s probably true. He just - he wants Harry to have better. He wants Harry to _want_ to have better. Zayn just wishes he could give it to him. 

“Yeah,” Zayn says after a moment of silence. “I guess.”

Niall sighs. “Don’t be a cock about this. Don’t fuck everything up because you’re too stupid or proud.”

“I won’t,” Zayn says. “I mean, I’ll try not to.”

“Talk to him.” Zayn looks up and Niall’s eyes are a sharp, piercing blue. “But don’t fuck this up, Zayn,” Niall says again, “because you’re going to be really sorry if you do.”

_**now** _

It takes Zayn about ten seconds to realize that Harry’s left. That he’s gone and left Zayn _again_ , and that Zayn’s letting him - _again_ \- and it’s like everything hits him all at once. 

This is what happened last time. They came home from the pub, and Zayn started in on all the things that Harry should have and Harry should want. Harry told him he didn’t need anything, that all he wanted was Zayn, but Zayn didn’t believe him, he just kept going, kept pushing, kept trying to make Harry admit that it bothered him, too. 

“ _It doesn’t though_ ,” Harry had said. His face was white. They’d had this same argument _so_ many times. “ _Zayn, I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep fighting with you about the same things. Why won’t you believe me?_ ”

Zayn couldn’t, though. He tried - he really did - but in the end he genuinely thought that Harry should want more. 

“ _And it doesn’t matter to you what I want, yeah? Because I can’t--_ ” Harry had sucked in a breath. When he spoke again the words shook as they left his mouth. “ _I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep fighting about this over and over again._ ”

Zayn had wanted to stop him. He’d wanted to be selfish and tell Harry to stay, that Zayn needed him, but he needed to let Harry go so Harry could try and be happy without him. 

“ _I don’t want to leave_ ,” Harry had said. He was throwing things in his rucksack haphazardly. Half of the shirts he was taking were Zayn’s. Zayn was going to be wearing Harry’s t-shirts for months. He knew it, and he still couldnt stop him. “ _I’ll do anything to stay, but you have to believe me,_ ” he’d said. “ _Zayn, please._ ”

Zayn didn’t believe him. He let Harry pack. He let Harry leave. He let Harry walk out and then he got his promotion and now he can buy whatever he wants. He can buy clothes and concert tickets and holidays away and whatever else he could ever think of wanting. 

None of it matters though, not even one fucking bit because Zayn doesn’t have Harry, and as luck would have it, Harry’s all Zayn really ever wanted, too. All he wanted was Harry - all he _wants_ is Harry - and Harry was here today again, trying to tell that to Zayn, and Zayn insisted on cocking it up one more goddamned time. 

Well fuck that.

Zayn’s heart starts beating, pounding erratically in his chest and runs from the flat, barely hearing the door bang shut behind him as he takes the stairs down two at a time. He’s not got on a coat or proper clothes or shoes even, and he stumbles the whole way, nearly tripping over his own feet as he makes it to the front door and out onto the street. Sunlight shines bright in his face, and he spins in a circle trying to figure out which way Harry’s gone off to. 

It winds up Harry’s not gone far at all. He’s standing just a few feet ahead, his face in his hands, back curved and deep breaths rattling his body. 

Zayn races over, rocks pinching the bottoms of his feet through his socks. He’s out of breath when he gets to Harry, but it doesn’t matter. He opens his mouth, puts his hand on Harry’s sleeve and pulls. 

“Harry, don’t,” Zayn pants. His chest tight, all the air in his lungs feel like it’s turned to stone. Harry lifts his head, and his eyes are damp. 

“Don’t what?” Harry asks. 

“Don’t leave again,” Zayn says. His voice shakes and he lets it. Fuck trying to pretend this isn’t killing him, because it is. Zayn’s been dying a little bit every single day since Harry left, and he’s going to try and make it stop right now. “Please don’t leave, Harry. God, I’m so sorry.”

Harry shakes his head. His hair is knotted around his face and his cheeks are mottled and pink. “What?” he asks again. 

“I’m miserable,” Zayn says. He steps in closer, feet cold on the pavement and holds onto Harry’s arms. Harry looks down and curses softly, gently stepping on the tips of Zayn’s toes to try and warm him up. “You asked if I’m happy because of my job and I’m not. I’m miserable.”

“Oh, babe, no,” Harry says. He tips his head down and noses the hair away from Zayn’s cheek. Zayn doesn’t know how he ever managed to give this up. “Is it the job, or--”

“I’m miserable because I miss you,” Zayn says. Harry sucks in a breath, and his arms tighten around Zayn. “I miss you so much,” Zayn whispers. “I fucked up. I should have believed you, and I didn’t and I just want to take it back.” He looks up, and Harry’s watching him the same way he’s always done, like Zayn’s the best thing Harry’s ever seen. Like Harry would do anything to be with him. 

“I know I have to work on believing you, and talking to you better about things,” Zayn says in a rush. He doesn’t want Harry to think that Zayn doesn’t know that he needs to do his part in making this work. He wants Harry to know how serious he is about this. “But if you could maybe try to--”

“Zayn, I want to come home,” Harry says wetly. He breathes out a shaky breath and leans forward, kissing Zayn with trembling lips. “Please. I just want to come home.”

“I love you,” Zayn says softly. He kisses Harry back, and his heart trips in his chest. “I’m so sorry. Please come home.”

Harry kisses him again and takes Zayn’s hand. When Zayn starts walking back into the flat Harry follows. He doesn’t let go.

_**then** _

“Ok, so it’s not much, all right?” Harry’s staring at Zayn with wide eyes. They’re outside the door of the flat that Harry found, and his eyes are bright green and sparkling. “It’s small but it’s so cozy, Zayn. Like, we can get a small sofa and a telly and cuddle up and it’ll be great.”

Zayn rolls his eyes fondly. He pulls Harry in closer and kisses his mouth. Harry’s lips taste sweet, like the strawberries he was eating at lunch. Zayn wants to kiss him forever. 

“How small is small though?” Zayn asks. “And is everything working? Do we need to get anything, or--”

“Ssh, come on, I’ll show you,” Harry says. He leans forward and slides the key in the lock. The doorknob sticks and Harry does a complicated little wiggle in the keyhole, but then the door is pushing open and Harry’s smile is so, so bright. 

“Just remember, it doesn’t matter what it looks like, really, because it’ll be ours, all right?” Harry says. His voice is vibrating with excitement. Zayn leans into him closer as they start to step inside. “That’s all that matters to me,” Harry says again. His hand tightens on Zayn’s waist. “I just want to be with you.”

“Yeah,” Zayn says softly. Harry kisses him again and Zayn closes his eyes. “Yeah, all right,” he says, and they step inside.

 

-END-


End file.
